Nocturne
by hobgoblin123
Summary: Hi, Sweeties! I'm back, at least temporarily. Easter hugs to all of you! Set on Earth, this story is AU. No magic, except vampire stuff :-D. Damien is a cop (with religious interests), Gerald a rock singer of all possible occupations (among other things...). Young women are being murdered, and Damien suspects the latest shooting star, the Hunter. Just give it a try!
1. Chapter 1

**Nocturne**

Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit whatsoever is intended.

A/N 1: Athlone House (renamed in 1972; its original name was 'Caen Wood Towers) really exists. One of London's finest Victorian houses, it's located on Hampstead Lane, overlooking the Heath. Sadly, nobody lives there anymore, and it's in a quite derelict state. I never paid it much attention while living in the area, but it certainly deserves a better fate than that.

A/N 2: I couldn't resist bringing Shakespeare in (after reading Lori Handeland's 'Shakespeare Undead', it somehow suggested itself) . But please believe me that I'm not in any way insinuating that he didn't write his great plays all on his own in real life, okay?

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Before hauling his bulk out of his long-suffering clunker, Damien Kilcannon Vryce checked his equipment for one last time. Bugging device, handcuffs, his favourite Beretta. Other than his ancient Rover, the tools of his trade were in perfect working order, although he hoped with all his heart that the latter wouldn't be needed in the course of the evening. He liked his job, even didn't mind working under cover, but blowing a hole through someone wasn't his cup of tea.

But something had to be done about the serial killings keeping the British capital on tenterhooks. Five young women had been butchered over the last weeks, each of them a porcelain-doll beauty with pale skin and long black hair. Whatever could be said about him, their murderer evidently had his priorities straight.

The sheer brutality of the crimes had shocked even the hard-boiled London cops. None of the victims had been raped, but the killer had torn out their throats so viciously that their heads had almost been severed from the bodies. And that wasn't the worst of it. Not by a long shot. Arthur McMillan, the chief forensic pathologist of the Metropolitan Police, had left no doubt that the wounds had been caused by a set of teeth not even remotely resembling a human denture. That had led to a host of wild speculations ranging from a rabid dog or a big cat on the loose to sick jokes about a nutcase imitating the so called 'Tooth Fairy', a character out of a popular novel. But neither alternative couldn't quite explain the fact that there hadn't been an ounce of blood left in the bodies. It was uncanny, to say the least.

 _For Christ's sake, pull yourself together and say hello to reality, Vryce_ , Damien thought to himself. _Count Dracula promotes cereals nowadays. There are no blood-sucking monsters of the dark, preying on the living. The worst you can come across tonight is a sick, twisted bastard who has watched too many vampire movies on the telly. And now get your stuff in gear, behave like the hack you profess to be and sound out your suspect._

The launch of his first CD last October had instantly catapulted the man calling himself the Hunter to world wide fame. Busy with rounding up a gang of forgers, Damien had never managed to attend one of his rare life performances, something he regretted, if only for missing a chance to get a feel for his suspect. Or so he told himself. But he had listened to said CD almost every evening, not to mention watching the handful of Hunter vids available on You Tube again and again until he knew every line and word off pat, and as far as he was concerned, the current hype about the bloke was all too understandable. His light tenor, spanning roundabout four octaves like poor Freddie Mercury's in his prime, was simply incredible, could caress like the finest silk or cut like a shard of glass when singing about an eternity of hunger and the agonies of hell. And that face...

 _There you go again. Can't you just keep your goddamn hormones in cheque for once?_ Vryce reprimanded himself. On a purely rational plane, he was well aware that there was nothing wrong with being gay. More and more people came out of the closet every day, and even the Lord Mayor of London had married his long-standing male lover last spring. But as for him, he wasn't so sure about the matter. If not for certain _inclinations_ utterly incommensurable with the doctrines of his Church, he would have defintely applied for the London Theological Seminary after coming of age, and he still hadn't quite overcome giving up that cherished dream. Either way, he saw no reason for hawking his sexual orientation. The less his colleagues and superiors knew about it, the better.

The young inspector called himself to order. For the time being, he had more pressing matters at hand than lamenting about batting for the other team, namely finding out whether the Hunter was responsible for the killings. Strangely, he seemed to have dropped right from the sky. Their best computer specialists had tried to piece together his past or at least find out his real name, but had failed miserably. Neither his photograph nor the fingerprints he had left on his micro matched with anything in their rogues' gallery, and even a hair analysis had brought no result. The man remained an enigma.

It went without saying that setting value on his privacy didn't make him the prime suspect in one of the worst serial killings since Jack the Ripper. But fact was that wherever the Hunter had performed lately, people had vanished without a trace. Birmingham, Liverpool, Edinburgh - the list went on and on. It could be a coincidence, but Damien's gut feeling told him otherwise.

His brow knitted into a tight frown, he cast the neogothic lookalike of Castle Dracula towering in front of him a hard look. Like its sister village Hampstead, Highgate was an expensive place only the very famous or folks having been fed with a silver spoon could afford to reside at, and Athlone house, built in 1872 for a rich dye manufacturer, certainly ranked among the top ten in terms of outrageous pricing. Sharing a modest two-bedroom flat in Camden Town with one of his colleagues, he wasn't exactly an expert in high class real estates, but he estimated the value of the property at roundabout three million pound sterling, not to mention the five hundred thousand-odd bucks the direly needed refurbishments had allegedly sucked up. As it had been bought - and paid for in cash - before the Hunter had ever sung so much as a single note in public, he had to have money in abundance, but only God knew where and how he had acquired his wealth. Just one more item on Vryce's ever lengthening list of mysteries.

Stifling a sigh, he walked up to the heavily carved oak door and rapped the brass knocker in form of a fanged demon's head that seemed to have sprung right out of "The Exorcist', a movie that had scared the shit out of him in his teens. Not a good omen, as far as he was concerned.

It didn't take long until the door wings swung open, just to reveal a young woman rather sparsely clad in a gauze-thin black gown. Giving her the once-over, Damien couldn't help but shuddering. Her long black tresses hanging all the way down to her waistline and her face a perfect oval, she was beautiful all right, not in the currently so very much in vogue barbie doll style with pumped up boobs and lips, but as delicate and pale as a night flower. He would have found her alluring if not for the expression in her green eyes. Or rather lack thereof. They were frighteningly blank, devoid of any human emotion whatsoever.

"My name is Damien Vryce," he forced out between clenched teeth at long last. "I've got an appointment with the Hunter."

"The Master is in His music room, waiting for you. Please be so kind as to follow me."

Whatever Damien had expected hadn't prepared him for the view greeting him inside. Almost everything, from the furniture itself, a mixture of priceless antiques and modern designer pieces, to the rugs and cushions was as black as the heart of midnight, and the rare red and golden accents only served to heighten the overall impression of dramatic darkness. If the Hunter's taste in interior design somehow or other mirrored the state of his soul, he wasn't altogether keen on making his acquaintance.

On they went through halls of gleaming black marble and candle-lit corridors, his guide gliding weightlessly ahead of him as if she were made of other stuff than coarse human flesh. _That's one hell of a creepy chick_ , Vryce groaned inwardly. _I only hope that she's a unique specimen. Coming across the two other brides of dear old Vlad would be too much for my already rattled nerves_. He had barely finished the thought when he called himself three times a fool for his unprofessional attitude. Whatever pills the woman had popped, she was no less mortal than he himself. No ancient monster in the guise of an aristocrat was waiting for him, eager to sink his fangs into his throat, and how the Hunter deemed it fit to decorate his home was none of his business. At least as long as it didn't involve covering lampshades with human skin or similar nasties, that is.

"His Excellency, the Count of Merentha."

Hearing the title, Vryce very nearly succumbed to a fit of the giggles. So much for 'no aristocrat'. He had never heard of a county or district called 'Merentha' before, but as matters stood, he wouldn't have been too surprised if it was located in goddamn Transylvania, the motherland of the undead.

The mere idea very nearly sent him into hysterics again, and he might have made a complete and utter fool of himself if not for the heavenly sounds reaching his ears. Before his wretched father had managed to get himself sacked and moved on to spending the already meagre family savings on drink and sports wagering henceforward, Damien had taken piano lessons himself. His teacher had considered him quite a talent, but nothing he had ever produced while hitting the keys had come even remotely close to the glissade of silvery notes played by a true master of his craft.

All sense of time escaped him as he stood there rooted to the spot as if in a dream, his eyes closed in rapture. Only when the man at the piano stopped playing and turned towards him, he snapped out of his trance-like state, just to goggle at his vis-à-vis in utter amazement.

None of the pictures or vids taken of the Hunter did do him justice. Seen in the flesh, he was simply breathtaking in an ethereal, almost otherworldly fashion Damien had never encountered in a human being before, be it man or woman. With skin the colour of ivory and a mane of light brown hair flowing around his delicate face like a halo, he could easily have been one of God's angels, sent down to Earth to make it a better place. If he was the killer, the corruption of his soul had left no mark on his outward appearance.

Remembering that drooling all over the place wasn't among his priorities, the young inspector cleared his throat. "That was beautiful," he said softly. "One of your own compositions?"

"Unfortunately not. It's the Nocturne by Chopin. I thought it somehow... fitting."

"Um, yeah, maybe." Vryce could have kicked himself for stammering like a teenager on his first date. He usually had the gift of the gab, but there was something about this man that he found outright unnerving. "I'm here for the interview you granted my paper," he stumbled on, a trickle of sweat running down his back. "But how shall I call you? Mr Hunter? Your Highness? Writing for a music magazine, I'm not used to dealing with aristocracy."

"As I'm the first and only Count of Merentha, 'Your Excellency' would be appropriate. But just 'Gerald' will do nicely. Consider the permission to call me by my given name a token of my esteem."

Damien blinked. By now, he was under the distinct impression that he was missing something of vital importance. Since his arrival on the scene, the Hunter had thwarted every attempt at catching him with his pants down. Hordes of paparazzi had been stalking him around the clock for months now, but they had never gotten round to so much as taking a single unofficial shot of him, let alone digging out some juicy details about his past.

In some respects, Vryce could understand his reclusiveness only too well. More than one star had gone to pieces under the constant pressure of the media, and so there might be nothing more sinister behind his playing hide and seek than the genuine wish to stay out of harm's way. Other celebs like Howard Hughes and Greta Garbo had pulled off that routine decades before his time. Well, Hughes had supposedly been batty like a bat in his later days, but that didn't negate the point.

Seen from this angle, the Hunter's current behaviour was pretty bizarre. Why going to any length to shroud one's life in a veil of mystery, just to divulge one's name to the first scribbler allowed into the lion's den? It didn't make any sense. Even more astounding was the bullshit about the 'token of esteem'. They had never met before, but yet the man had made it sound as if they'd been best buddies for ages. Try as he might, Damien couldn't wrap his head around it.

To mask his bewilderment, he approached the small coffee table nearby and inspected the hefty tomes piled atop it. They weren't quite what he had expected. Anthologies on astronomy and aerospace technology were warring for space with no less intimidating monographs on the latest discoveries in quantum physics. "Holy crap! That's a hell of a demanding reading," he blurted out. "Just having a look at the indices would presumably give me a nasty headache. Do you honestly stick your nose into those reams, or are they just for decoration?"

"As a matter of fact, I composed them."

Damien's mouth fell open. "You're pulling my leg, right? I mean, come on, man, you're a rock star, count or not. That kind doesn't write books on quantum physics. It's simply not natural."

It seemed to him that the Hunter smiled faintly. "And what _is 'that kind'_ supposed to do, if I may ask? Having sex with five groupies at a time and getting high on drugs? I'm sorry to disappoint you, but both possibilities fail to appeal to me."

"So you're really... what does it say on the cover? Gerald Tarrant?" Damien asked incredulously.

"The very same. But what's in a name, Vryce? I've been called so many of them in my long and rather colourful life."

"Now you're exaggerating. I turned thirty-two last month, and I'll eat my goddamn hat if you aren't a few years younger than I."

An elegantly arched eyebrow quirked in sardonic amusement. "Appearances can be deceiving sometimes. For a start, let's just say that I was twenty-nine when the parameters of my existence changed completely. I haven't looked back ever since. However, I find talking about a topic as mundane as our age somewhat boring. If you don't mind, I'd rather you accompanied me to my astronomy tower. Night has fallen, and you might get to see something interesting."

A lot of possible replies came to Damien's mind. He wanted to point out that he wasn't in the least keen on an astronomy lesson for the time being, that his - naturally non-existent - readers were burning to learn something about their idol's next projects and his boss was waiting for his story, but drowning in those silver eyes never leaving his own, he settled for a faint nod.

The Hunter rose to his feet in a motion so fluent and graceful that it evoked images of a stalking cat. When he saw him in full length at long last, Vryce noticed with a start that his garments were anything but the stuff one could buy at Marks & Sparks. Or at whatever halfway normal clothing store in Great Britain, for that matter. The last time he had come across a bloke running around in leggings and a calf-length tunic complete with matching cloak had been at a renaissance fair in Regent's Park, and it had looked fucking ridiculous. Not so here.

The robes of an age long gone by sat well on Tarrant, accentuated his height and slenderness in a most becoming fashion, but there was more to it than that. Every idiot with a few spare bucks in his pocket could buy a fancy dress and pretend to be someone else for one night. The custom-made dream of heavily embroidered silk and velvet flowing around the Hunter's lean frame had doubtlessly cost more than said 'few bucks", maybe even more than a humble Scotland Yard inspector could earn in a month, but that wasn't the point now. Much more important was the fact that it usually showed when people squeezed themselves into clothes they weren't used to, something the fake medieval knight in Regent's Park could testify to.

But Gerald Tarrant had no suchlike problems. He wore his robes with an air of utter naturalness quite amazing for a child of the twentieth century. The way he casually smoothed out a minuscule wrinkle in his tunic sleeve without even looking and gathered his cloak tighter around him when passing the coffee table left no doubt that he was no novice in those matters.

 _So the bastard is into wrapping himself in velvet and silk. Why the heck does that bother you so much?_ Damien thought while following him up a steep spiral staircase. _He's entitled to wear whatever he wants in the privacy of his home, even if it were a goddamn trash bag. Maybe he and Vampirella downstairs have got a screw loose somewhere, but if that's truly the case, they're in good company on an island famous for her eccentric inhabitants._

But he knew that he was deceiving himself. He couldn't quite put his finger on it yet, but there was something very odd about the Hunter, and it wasn't just his choice of clothes. He might look like a man in his late twenties at first glance, and a strikingly handsome one at that, but there was an ageless quality about him, a calm and composure way beyond his young years that belied his flawless skin.

Very much against his will, Damien remembered the horror movies he had seen in his youth. A lot of actors had played things going bump in the night over the decades, with more or less success. The make-up artists had kitted them out with fangs, claws, contact lenses and whatever they had deemed fit to create a scary effect, but in the end, Lugosi and Co. hadn't been able to deny what they truly were beneath the mask: ordinary mortals with a weird job.

Tarrant was different. His eyes were human-shaped, his white teeth perfectly even, and his manners left nothing to be desired. But there was an almost palpable aura of power and authority radiating off him, a whiff of danger lurking beneath the pleasant facade that would make him ideal for the part. If that man ever starred in a vampire movie, he'd scare the hell out of people just by staring into the camera. Effortlessly.

"Vryce?"

Snapping back into reality, Damien realized that they had reached the top of the spiral staircase. The Hunter had already stepped outside, holding the black metal door open for him. For a moment frozen in time, the doorway looked like a gaping maw to him, and he shuddered. Then he shrugged off his anxiety and followed Tarrant into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

After the door had closed behind him with a resounding snap, Damien looked around and gasped in surprise.

At about sixty yards from base to battlements and situated on one of the highest points in Greater London, the Hunter's astronomy tower offered a splendid view of the sea of houses stretched out beneath them, one of the largest cities in Europe and the heart and soul of what had once been an empire ruling almost half of the world's population in its prime.

Down there in those seemingly endless urban canyons, he wouldn't have seen much of the stars. The city lights were too bright, the hustle and bustle of the modern world too distracting to spend some time on stargazing. But the Heath was dark and quiet, the only sounds reaching his ears the wind moaning in the trees and a soft swish of silk when the Hunter approached the huge telescope occupying the centre of the platform. Damien was by no means an expert in the field, but even he knew that every hobby astronomer on the planet would be panting for such a treasure. "Wow, that's quite a beauty!" he exclaimed.

"It was made to specification, according to my own design," the Hunter whispered, his slender fingers caressing the metal. "There's nothing better to be had on the private plane, but yet it's no more than a measly substitute."

"For what, if I may ask? Owning a real giant like the Discovery Channel Telescope in Arizona? It would cause your precious astronomy tower to collapse in no time flat," Vryce quipped.

"Not in the slightest." Tarrant raised his head and gazed up at the multitude of stars glittering high above them, a wistful expression in his pale grey eyes. "Have you ever longed to go where no man has gone before, as it says in one of your television series? Asked yourself what kind of wonders are waiting for mankind in the depths of space?"

"Well, many tax payers think it's a waste of money better spent on other things, but I wouldn't mind if a bunch of daredevils paid a visit to Mars in the foreseeable future. I mean, the Sun's claim that someone spotted fossilised dinosaurs on the planetary surface was pretty weird, but maybe they could find bacteria or other hints at alien life."

The Hunter snorted. "You're a man of limited imagination, Vryce. What is Mars? There's so much out there to explore, so much to see. And here we are, confined to our tiny corner of the universe. Ignorant, save for a few pictures of faraway galaxies and nebulas that rise more questions than they answer. It's... frustrating." He sighed softly. "But we can continue our conversation about man's limitations later. The night isn't getting any younger, and there's something else I'd like to show you."

Tarrant moved so fast that the human eye couldn't follow. One moment, he was right at Damien's side, and the next he was on the battlements, balancing precariously over the abyss. "What the fuck...? For God's sake, man, are you suicidal?" the inspector screamed, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists at his side. "I haven't come up here to witness you falling to your death!"

"Rest assured. I won't fall. And even if I did, suchlike trifles couldn't kill me."

At the very next moment, Tarrant burst into flames. Only that they weren't like any flames Damien had ever seen before. They burned with a cold blue unlight that was almost blinding, but yet he couldn't tear his gaze away when the humanoid shape in the fire transformed, morphed into something utterly alien to the mortal plane.

Sleek and black as Hell itself, with huge veined wings which seemed to stretch from one corner of the turret to the other, the creature facing him bore no resemblance whatsoever to the elegant, cultivated aristocrat who had received him a mere half an hour ago. Only the eyes were the same, grey, piercing and brimming with sardonic amusement.

Cold fire flared up again, and the process reversed itself. When the Hunter stepped down from his porch and walked languidly toward him, looking much too smug for his peace of mind, Damien drew back until he could feel the unyielding metal of the door handle pressing into his back. "Dear God Almighty, who are you? _What_ are you?" he gasped out, more afraid than he had ever been in his life, no matter how dire the circumstances. But although the man, or what he had taken for a man, came uncomfortably close, it was only to tilt up his chin with a long index finger.

It was so icy that Damien could almost feel his skin blistering under the touch. Tarrant's entire body radiated cold, just as he himself radiated fear. No animate being could feel like that, be it man, beast or plant. "I was human once, just like you," the Hunter breathed. "But as I've already pointed out, the parameters of my existence changed in my late twenties. Now I'm... something else entirely."

"Could you be a bit more precise, perhaps?"

"Are you sure you want to know?"

"Bloody hell, your little trick almost gave me a heart attack," Damien growled. "It surely can't get any worse than that."

"As you wish, Vryce. With regard to the fact that I don't make a habit of explaining myself, an illustration of my true nature might be useful."

Tarrant traced a cold line to the curve of his neck, stopping just where the large blood vessels were running under a thin layer of skin. Something pricked him, like the sting of a bee but less painful, and when the man removed his finger, Damien saw that a drop of blood was clinging to its tip. "Hey, just wait a second," he protested hotly. "Asking you to let the cat out of the bag, I didn't mean you to hurt..."

Having a look at the beautiful face so close to him, the words died on his lips. Tarrant's delicate nostrils flared as he inhaled the coppery scent wafting up to him, and his pupils dilated so much that neither iris nor the white of his eyes were visible any longer. It was a frightening sight, but not half as bad as the set of sharp fangs glinting ominously in the moonlight all of a sudden. "Does that answer your question?" the Hunter said quietly.

"Y... yes, I suppose so," Damien stammered. "You're a... a vampire, aren't you?"

"Just so. Does it bother you?"

"If it... have you lost your marbles? You can bet your ass it bothers me! Not to mention the fact that one doesn't meet a creature out of the realms of legend every day, you're responsible for the murder of five young women here in London alone! God knows how many innocents you did in elsewhere."

Tarrant cast him a withering glare. "There are no innocents. You of all people should know that."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Why, you disappoint me, _Inspector_ Vryce. A man aspiring to priesthood once certainly should have heard about the doctrine of original sin."

Registering the baffled expression on his face, the Hunter smiled. "Oh yes, I know who you are. It was one reason for inviting you here. The other one - well, we can get back to that later. For now, let me assure you that the fatalities you're bemoaning aren't my doings. I won't deny that I drained my prey to the last drop in the early days after my transformation. Many times. But I didn't 'do in' those women, as you so colourfully put it."

"How... how often is 'many times'? Damien asked weakly.

"I don't keep a tally. For the first decade, I was barely cognizant, anyway, but I think it's safe to assume that I killed at least once or twice a night at the beginning, maybe even more often. Deducting the rare occasions the hunt came to nothing for one reason or the other, we're talking about roughly five to six hundred victims a year. That makes... are you all right, Vryce?"

"Not quite. I think I'd better sit down."

For a while, Damien's world was reduced to dozens of black dots dancing merrily in front of his eyes. But at long last, his sight cleared sufficiently to see the glass held towards him. "Here. Drink that. It's nothing more sinister than carbonated mineral water."

"But why having bottled water in your house at all?" Vryce rasped. "Is it of any use for you?"

"No. My system can't digest anything save the obvious. And before you ask: Garlic, wild roses and crosses don't daunt me, nor do I sleep in a coffin or have to be invited in. That's just superstitious nonsense. But to get back to your question, my walking blood bottle needs to eat and drink. We don't want her to come to harm, do we?"

"For God's sake, man, how can you be so callous about it? She isn't a _bottle_ but a living, breathing human being. You don't fucking own her!"

The Hunter shrugged. "As I paid her pimp a hefty sum for her, it's a matter of opinion. But if it eases your conscience, you can think of her as a hired hand. A few weeks from now on, and I'm going to release her from my service with enough money in her pockets to pay for college and set up a small business afterwards. It's give and take, really."

"But it's still wrong!"

"Kindly spare me your tiring morals. I need blood, plain and simple. So what would you prefer me to do? Advertise in the Times? Or wait until the thirst becomes so overpowering that I'm bound to tear the throat out of the first unlucky human who comes my way? I don't think that this course of action would appeal to you."

Presumably not. The last word hadn't yet been spoken on the matter, but as there was nothing he could do about it for the time being, Damien decided to let the matter rest. Feeling slightly better, he struggled to his feet, deliberately ignoring Tarrant's outstretched hand. "So the traditional vampire repellents don't work on you," he muttered. "Is there anything that could harm you at all?"

"That goes without saying. Every creature must have a weakness, but let's not go into detail now. Just keep in mind that your _repellents_ could yet save your life should you ever come across another one of my kind. Knowing of no other option, he or she may give you a wide berth if faced with a crucifix around your neck."

"Holy shit! Are there more of you?"

"Don't be naive, Vryce. It doesn't suit you." The Hunter's eyes were pale grey flecked with silver again, but utterly cold. "After witnessing half a dozen of fledlings turning an entire city into an anteroom of hell in the sixteen-thirties, I was very careful not to create one ever again. In the end, I hunted them down like rabid dogs, one after the other. Not out of humanitarian reasons, mind, but because drawing unwanted attention isn't altogether advisable for a vampire."

"In the _sixteen-thirties_? Good God, man, how old are you?"

"Does it really matter? Suffice to say that I saw empires rise and fall, advised kings and queens and collected my debts in blood. I was with Edward III of England when he defeated the much larger French army at Crécy. Thanks to the massed use of the longbow, a battlefield strategy I suggested to him, if I may say so. He knew what I was, and yet he didn't shy away from employing my services. The same goes for your treasured bard, although on an entirely different plane."

The Hunter chuckled. "How he quaked in his boots when I revealed my true nature! But in the end, dear Will paid my price, as did countless others. Feeding me for a while wasn't to his disadvantage. His bones crumbled into dust long ago, but the plays I wrote with him survived the passing of time unscathed."

Damien opened his mouth and closed it again without having said anything. Among the manifold eye-openers of the night, learning that his host had had a hand in Shakespeare's works was but a minor shock.

Strangely, he didn't doubt the man's words. Tarrant was a monster, an abomination in the eyes of God, but he didn't struck him as one to adorn himself with borrowed plumes. It simply wasn't his style.

However, there was still an important question on his mind. "But why telling me, Gerald?" he said very quietly. "Aren't you afraid that I could betray your secrets? The days of the inquisition are over, but an angry mob could still storm the castle, if you know what I mean."

"There are just a very few things I'm afraid of, Vryce. You being my undoing isn't among them."

"Due to the fact that I won't have a chance to babble something out, I suppose."

The Hunter shook his head. "Unless it's absolutely unavoidable, I don't kill nowadays, least of all a man of God. That's your true vocation, not trying to make the world a better place with a gun in your hand. As useful as the police may be, you were born for a higher purpose. Squandering the gift He has given you is tantamount to spitting in His face."

"You don't understand," Vryce whispered dejectedly. "The truth is that I'm unfit to be a priest. It's simply impossible."

"I'm very well aware of your predicament, of your compunctions about desiring men. What I don't approve of is your cowardice."

"Cowardice?" The young inspector felt his cheeks turning red with anger. "You bloody son of a bitch have no right to condemn me outright! Do you think that I just took the simple way out? You've no idea what I've been through, what giving up my dream cost me."

"You don't have a monopoly on suffering, you know," Tarrant snapped irritably. "Even before becoming what I'm now, I was called a 'freak of nature'. A 'changeling'. I had strange dreams, visions about alien worlds and parallel universes I couldn't control. It was considered as a sure sign of demonic possession where I grew up, and the danger of being put to the torch was omnipresent. To make matters worse, I was cursed with a hulking beast of a father who beat me half to death for my 'evil witchery' on more occasions than I actually care to count and eight older brothers coming after him in body and in spirit. You cannot possibly imagine their cruelty, their sadistic delight in making me scream in pain."

That silenced Damien. "I'm sorry, Gerald. Honestly," he muttered after a while.

"As I killed my siblings as soon as I had the power and moral freedom to do so, there's no need to get all sentimental, eh? This isn't about fishing for your pity, Vryce. It would lead too far to brief you about everything I saw in those visions. Most of it would only fluster you, anyway. But whatever you may think about me, trust me in one respect: Our fates are connected beyond space and time. There's a link between us, between our very souls that even death can't sever. The priest I witnessed risking his neck for the sake of mankind at my alter ego's side again and again wouldn't cower in front of a bunch of hypocrites refusing to ordain homosexuals. He'd call them 'vulking bastards' and fight for justice, to his last breath if need be."

"But the Church..."

"Is no more infallible than other religious communities," Tarrant cut him short, a flash of impatience passing over his striking features. "They consist of ordinary mortals, harbouring very human sentiments such as prejudice, greed and the desire to silence any dissenters. When the Council of Paris dealt with the matter in 824 A. D. for example, endorsing the death penalty for sodomy, its motives were less than saintly. The nature of the One God is Mercy, though, and His word is Forgiveness. Do you really believe that He would reject you for finding pleasure in laying with a man?"

Damien blinked. "I've never seen it that way. But what's it to you, anyway? Please don't get me wrong, but I thought that, well..."

"An _abomination_ like I can't utter the name of God, let alone putting his faith in Him?" the Hunter finished his sentence for him, a strange light shining in his eyes. "I served Him long before the Danes ruling Easter England converted to Christianity. As a matter of fact, they might have continued to pray to their pagan deities if I hadn't preached the gospel to them. Believe me or not, but I wrote dozens of our holy scriptures myself, under many names. And always and evermore I taught that there's nothing wrong with following one's natural urges, but it was to no avail. When will they ever learn?"

A trace of bitterness was clearly audible in Tarrant's low voice, and Damien's heart went out to him. Without thinking twice, he rested a hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Don't let it get to you," he murmured consolingly. "As you said, the religious authorities are only human. Humans can change. And if everything else fails, there's still Protestantism. They're a bit more lenient, or so I've heard."

The corners of Tarrant's mouth quirked up ever so slightly. "As long as you exclude factions like the Evangelical Fundamentalists, you may be right. But now I'd rather direct our conversation towards a more private topic. Gannon, the ancient one who saved me from dying of heart failure at the age of twenty-nine - he willingly greeted the dawn more than four hundred years ago. Since then, I've been living alone, my pets not included. I'm sick and tired of it."

"But you're famous, pampered and courted by God knows whom, not to mention your scientific career. That doesn't sound so bad to me," Damien objected, valiantly ignoring the derogative term 'pets'.

"I'm not talking about my professional life. The nights can be long and lonely in spite of my manifold occupations, Vryce. I'm looking for someone to keep me company. At least for a while, considering your short-lived nature."

"And what exactly would 'keeping you company' entail?"

The Hunter turned away from him and stared fixedly into the distance. "It depends on you," he breathed. "You don't strike me as a gold-digger, but know that I've amassed more wealth over the centuries than we could ever spend, even if you lived to see the turn of the next millennium. We could purchase a private airplane, visit the natural wonders of Earth. If you're more interested in cultural treasures, there are thousands of books in my personal library, including priceless manuscripts from as early as the eighth century A.D. And there's so much more I could offer you. Like... friendship."

His thoughts tumbling over each other, Damien scratched his itching stubble. This wasn't quite what he had expected when arranging an interview with the Hunter. The prospect of spending some time with such an ancient, enigmatic creature, of hearing first hand reports about what it had really been like to live - or whatever - in Elizabethan England, not to mention in distant Anglo-Saxon times, was mightily intriguing, but there was a question burning on the tip of his tongue he'd rather have answered before making a decision. "There's something I need to know, Gerald. The two men in your visions, our 'alter egos', as you called them, what were they for each other?"

The lean frame in front of him tensed up. "Once again, it depends," the Count of Merentha whispered. "In a very few of the alternative realities I saw, they were enemies right to the bitter end. In others, they managed to overcome their vast differences and became friends, but shied away from taking their relationship to a new level. Pride and stubbornness can be bad counsellors. In one or two, they were lovers."

"I see. Would the latter be possible in this reality at all, considering your, erm, condition?"

"I'm undead, Vryce, not dead as a door nail. My reproductive system works just fine. And to forestall your next question: Yes, I wouldn't be altogether averse to laying with you. But before rushing into any kind of commitment on your part, there's something about my past you should know. I think I owe you that much."

Tarrant turned back towards him, squared his shoulders under the layers of velvet and silk and looked him straight in the eye. "The night I became what I'm now, I fed on my wife and two of my children, regaining just enough sense after the pangs of my hunger had been somewhat alleviated to spare my eldest son. My heir, destined to carry on the bloodline. Eric never forgave me for robbing him of his entire family."

Damien couldn't really hold it against the poor lad. "You... you murdered..." He couldn't bring himself to say it. "Good God, man, how the hell can anybody in his sane mind commit such a ghastly crime? It's outrageous!" he choked out at long last, completely aghast.

"But I wasn't in my sane mind, Vryce. There was no such thing in my age, but nowadays I could very well plead temporary insanity and get away with it."

"Care to explain?"

The Hunter's shoulders rose and fell in a silent sigh. "As I've already pointed out, a newly created vampire is out of control, a monster indeed that can't be reasoned with. In the long run, the transformation process doesn't automatically negate one's primordial dispositions, but the hunger is so overwhelming at first that everything else pales against it. You're simply oblivious to trifles like sexual desire, compassion or moral inhibitions. The only thing you can think of - if you manage to think at all - is blood."

"That sounds pretty gruesome to me," Vryce muttered.

"It is. You're no more than a mindless animal, a slave to your most basic instincts. Most recover after a while and become whole again, at least as far as it's possible. A very few even make good use of their extended life span by working for the common good. Gannon was one of them, until he tired of the world and chose the flames. But others - they loose themselves in the thrill of the hunt, in the joy of holding another life in their hands, snuffing it out at their leisure. In nine times out of ten, it's those already corrupted to the core before accepting the dark gift who willingly sever the last ties to their lost humanity, but not always."

"But you were strong enough to resist the temptation. Instead of hoisting the white flag, you fought to keep something of the man you once were alive, at whatever cost. In my book, that does you credit."

"Perhaps. And yet I'm damned, bound to the inner circle of hell for all eternity."

His hands balled into white-knuckled fists at his side, the Hunter's usually so smooth voice was hoarse with anguish. Seeing him in such misery made the remnants of Damien's anger fizzle out completely. "Haven't you stated yourself that the nature of the One God is Mercy and His Word forgiveness, Gerald?" he said gently. "I won't deny that I found some of the stuff you told me tonight pretty unsettling, but you weren't yourself at the time. If you truly repent your deeds, the Lord in His infinite wisdom will forgive you. And how could he not? Even now, you could easily pass for one of His angels."

Tarrant gave him a calculating look. "So you deem me physically attractive?"

"Are you kidding? Every queer I know would give an arm and a leg for dancing the horizontal tango with you." Registering his confused frown, Damien grinned broadly. "For peeling you out of your funny clothes layer by layer and having his wicked way with you, nice and slow."

"I'm getting the picture, Vryce," the Hunter retorted drily. "No need to elaborate on the subject."

"Fine. But why asking in the first place? Every time you look in a mirror, you... bloody hell! Do you cast a reflection at all?"

Tarrant snorted like an annoyed cat. "Of course I do. I've got a physical body, however altered, that reflects light the same as yours. It's just plain physics. My soul - or potential absence thereof - has nothing to do with it. To get back to the point, I know very well that I'm more than simply handsome, one of the banes of my early mortal days. I only wanted to make sure of your personal opinion on the matter."

"Well, if that's the problem, you can sit back and relax. You're one hell of an eye candy, Gerald. In fact, you're the most beautiful creature I've ever seen."

"It's good to know that I do have at least one redeeming trait in your eyes." The Hunter stepped closer, so close that Damien could feel the unearthly cold radiating from his body. "But is it enough to outweigh the drawbacks of my nature?" he breathed. "I won't lie to you, Vryce. For as long as I exist, I will always need blood. There's no way around it. I tried, more than once. It came to no good."

That was the question of the night, wasn't it? Gerald was brilliant, gifted, alluring and doubtlessly gritty. He wouldn't have made it through only God knew how many centuries without a fair amount of guts. But he wasn't alive, not in the traditional sense of the word, anyway, was condemned to drain humans off their lifeblood like a giant parasite in order to prolong his own unnatural existence. Could he himself live with that, a would-be priest and cop who had nothing but Tarrant's word that the man wasn't involved in the killings which had brought him here in the first place? He had no idea.

Maybe it would be best to call it a day and get the hell out of this eerie place, never to return. If his host allowed him to leave, that is. The Hunter didn't give the impression of being prone to taking chances.

Damien was still pondering his options, trying very hard not to loose himself in those molten pools of silver again, when his mobile started to ring. At the same time, a strange silvery substance at the periphery of his vision he had written off as a shroud of mist suddenly solidified into a much more substantial shape. "My, my, what have we here?" the unknown man, or what could have passed for a man if not for his strange manner of showing up, sniggered mischievously. "You weren't planning on hiding your cute new boyfriend from me, were you, Gerald?"


End file.
